


Spoils of War at the End of the World

by All_the_damned_vampires



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hamlet - Freeform, M/M, Possession, Sensory Deprivation, The Apocalypse, Torture, Trauma, hurt/comfort/hurt again, pining and guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-20 09:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10659768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_the_damned_vampires/pseuds/All_the_damned_vampires
Summary: Written for dreamsofspike for spn_springfling.Lucifer wins. Castiel and Sam are left to bear witness.





	Spoils of War at the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: unexpected hurt/comfort - like where the one who's hurt expects the other one to be cruel/uncaring about their trauma, maybe even to hurt them worse, but instead they're kind and gentle.
> 
> Yeah, okay, I think it's fair to say I missed the comfort part. I have somewhat of a habit of subverting the prompt. Nevertheless I hope my recipient was pleased.

**Title:** Spoils of War at the End of the World  


It's more stumbling than walking, but Castiel has gotten used to it. The effortless travel of an angel, flitting from place to place within the same moment, time and space bending at his whim, has long been over.

  


At least he's not moved much, at least he thinks he isn't, maybe he's been dragged this route before, feet scuffing against a cold floor. Cold, cold, everything's cold, the fingers biting into his arms and keeping him upright are burning ice, and the desire for warmth, that all too human craving, is shameful.

  


Castiel's floated in the icy void of space, serene and unaffected, larger than the whirling planets. Now he's crippled by his small vessel's need for rest, for food, for heat.

  


For comfort.

  


There's precious little of that now, Castiel knows. There's no softness standing in the eye of the apocalypse.

  


Just memories now. That gruff voice, long absent, calling his name, lips pink and silken, moving to shape the sounds. Castiel's borrowed fingertips tingling with the urge to stroke along that tender mouth. The first step in Castiel's long fall from Grace.

  


He never did reach out to touch. Now he never will.

  


The cold fingers jerk his arm and Castiel stumbles. His hips, knees, back are burning, muscles shrieking. He's pretty sure his shoulders are once again dislocated. Most days, he's confined to a squat, arms pinned behind his back by a wooden board, shivering in the throne room. Crude, effective, human torture. Castiel's a showpiece. A warning.

  


One of Earth's last angels. A sideshow freak.

  


There may be laughter, or the gawking of demon supplicants, but Castiel sees nothing, hears nothing. His senses dulled when he lost contact with Heaven, and now what little he can perceive as a human is kept muffled by a thick padded blindfold, by the plugs pushed into his ears. The only sound is the pulse of his heart.

  


"They'll want to see your face," Lucifer had said, just moments before shutting out all sound, and he rubbed a thumb along Castiel's mouth, as if he knew all of Castiel's secrets. Lucifer, Lord of Heaven, Earth, and Hell.

  


Scorched paradise.

  


The lack of sound and light had made Castiel shrink down, trapped in an even smaller space. Alone except for the beat of his heart and his guilt. So like a god he was and now he's not and losing that hurts the most sometimes. He feels human, but he's isn't, not one of those glorious creations of twisted contradiction. The creatures he admired. The second step in his Fall. Two brothers, standing shoulder to shoulder. _Brothers_ , changing the meaning of that word from cold duty to incandescent love.

  


Gone now.

  


Loneliness, but Castiel is never alone. Not even in his mind. There's another inside, Castiel realizes, a man, what used to be a man, someone small and diminished and screaming, screaming, screaming. He's there and Castiel knows this as he has always known this, shoves the man down, deep down, fists in his screaming mouth, there's no fists, no mouth, just a soul that grows smaller and smaller every day. He had a name once, and a purpose but Castiel, with nearly every moment since creation burned in his brain, can't remember. Castiel won't remember, only that he owes this man, and Castiel drags him down, away from the cold and the pain, into memory.

  


Look, he tells the man, look at the desert. Miles of golden sand stretch away from them, meeting the line of an orange sunset. The sand under Castiel's toes is still warm, the night not yet leeching away the heat of the sun. Look, look at the sleek lizard, perched on the rock, each scale on its skin like a glossy bead. Everything a marvelous creation. No mistakes.

  


No mistakes.

  


Castiel can't stay, he won't stay, the man doesn't want him to. Castiel is no comfort.  The other wants a girl and a woman, both with sad eyes, whose names he's forgotten now. His family. He wants them more than he wants the glory of God's purpose, the higher calling, all the selfish, arrogant desires he called self-sacrifice when he walked away from his family.

  


_I'm not your father_. Castiel's first time in that borrowed skin.

  


Family.

  


The floor changes under Castiel's feet, smooth and warm and he stifles a moan. He's directed along now, and as he moves into this new space, the air moist and heated, the fingers digging into his arm soften, warm. Almost tender.

  


Has he been here before?

  


Those soft fingers pluck the plugs gently from Castiel's ears. The rush of blood drowns everything out for a moment. The plugs don't come out often. Sometimes Lucifer will read to him. Dante. Shakespeare. His voice both contemptuous and amazed. Still jealous of an extinct species.

  


" _'What a piece of work is man'_ , hm. Not anymore." Cold fingers in Castiel's hair.

  


_In apprehension how like a god._

  


Once in a while, small fingers will tug a plug free, sharp nails scratching like daggers along the vulnerable slope of Castiel's earlobe, and Meg will whisper, "It's Thursday, Castiel."

  


She helps him count the days. It's mercy, perhaps to help Castiel keep his sanity, or it's cruelty, Castiel never knows. Only that she's fond of him and her touch doesn't freeze like ice.

  


It's not her voice this time.

  


"Cas," Sam whispers in his ear.

  


The other one inside the vessel rises up screaming, howling, and Castiel drags him back down. Look at the desert. Observe the silvery ears of the desert fox, under a blue sky bleached by heat. Run your fingers over the rough green flesh of a sagauro, towering in the sun. It's warm here. Stay. Stay and look. _Don't see._

  


Sam.

  


Castiel opens his mouth to answer, and makes a tortured sound in his throat. A fist against his jaw last night. Lucifer's anger. He's pretty sure it's broken.

  


Fingers whisper along his chin and Castiel flinches.

  


"Oh, I see. Hang on, Cas." Healing heat trails along his skin and Castiel feels his bones set to right. The pain recedes.

  


"Sam," Castiel manages.

  


"I'm here." Sam's voice, rough and strained and gritty.

  


Castiel flinches again when water begins to patter down on his bare flesh, but it doesn't hurt. It's warm, as warm as Sam's hands as they drift along his skin, washing away grit and dirt. Each wound, each pain, soothed away by the healing power of Sam's touch.

  


Not his power. Don't think. _Don't think._

  


When Castiel reaches for the blindfold, Sam stills his hands. Presses fingertips to Castiel's mouth when he tries to speak. Darkness then. Silence. Fitting. Castiel is content to remain, obediently letting Sam wash and cosset him. Letting the pain fade away.

  


Comfort to be found in misery after all.

  


The sound of the shower drowns out the meaning of Sam's words, the drone of his voice. Easier to imagine him as that earnest boy, awed by Castiel's presence, his power. Remember Sam's hand, trembling, reaching out, for hope, for forgiveness. Adoration. Those eyes, so different from--Castiel can't remember _who_ , he's lost the thread. Sam's eyes, worshipful.

  


_How like a god._

  


Blasphemy.

  


It doesn't matter now. God is dead.

  


At Sam's touch, Castiel feels himself stir, feels his arousal grow. Base urges he's no longer ashamed to feel, he's moved so far beyond his stoic indifference. It feels good, and Castiel turns into each touch, arching his back, listening to Sam's approving murmurs. A memory, faded and dear, two shadows moving in the back of a sleek black car, everything Castiel never should of wanted, standing on the outside unobserved, aching with strange, forbidden desire.

  


Castiel was a fool.

  


The shower cuts out and Castiel shivers. A thick towel rubs along his skin, his hair, and then hands are leading him away, warm tile beneath his feet giving way to soft carpet.

  


Castiel kneels and feels those hands push his blindfold up and away. He blinks, the room over-bright. Sam is standing above him, lights flickering around his head like a halo.

  


"Sam," Castiel says. Worshipful. Adoring.

  


So much he wants to say. Words like prayers.

  


His vision clears and Castiel can see Sam's eyes now. Tear-bright and shiny. Agonized, resigned.

  


His hands are shaking. No strings visible, but Castiel can still see them being pulled.

  


"Hello Castiel," Lucifer says.

  


The other rises up in warning, screaming, but Lucifer is already shoving his stolen thumbs into Castiel's eyes. Red pain and Castiel howls. Vision blinks out, sight gone, and Castiel takes Jimmy's hand and tugs his back down, far away from Sam's prison, from Lucifer's revenge, from reality.

  


Look at the desert.


End file.
